Aftermath
by thein273
Summary: A series of oneshots correlating to the events predating and following the Scarred Hero chronicles. Follows the emotional states of many of the beloved characters from the Last Olympian series such as Annabeth Chase and Percy Jackson.
1. Burning

Burning

**Disclaimer: I own nothing from Percy Jackson or the Heroes of Olympus. All rights go to Hyperion Publishing and Rick Riordan.**

**This is a story that it set in an alternate reality to the end of The Last Olympian, where Percy went missing. This takes place exactly two years later. Please Review.**

* * *

The waves lapped gently upon the shoreline, beautiful in their serenity, but still, the ferocity of the stormy sea was still visible even in its unerring calm. The color was a pleasant green, brilliant yet subdued, completely contradictory. The water reminded me painfully of my best friend, Perseus Jackson, whose father had been the God of the Sea. A pang of grief brought a lingering tear to my eye, until finally I blinked and let it fall.

The date was August 18th, 2011, exactly two years after Percy disappeared, never to be seen or heard from again. For so long, Camp Half-Blood denied the obvious. Countless quests were sent in an effort to find Percy and bring him back, but all failed, and no wonder; they were searching for a dead man. It was still so hard to admit, and to a certain extent, I was still in denial. Some say such feelings were natural and that they were a step closer to recovering, but it was just another cruel joke by The Fates. Every time a demigod crossed the barrier between Camp and the mortal world, I felt a little hopeful, thinking that this time it could be him, but of course it wouldn't be. The dead don't walk; not unless Nico Di Angelo summons them.

I silently cursed the son of Hades beneath my breath. I didn't know why, maybe because I could've gone on not knowing if he hadn't gotten impatient and searched the Underworld for our friend. Of course, not knowing was even worse than coming to terms with his death, but that knowledge didn't make the pain go away. Another tear rolled down my cheek as I recalled his jet black hair and green eyes, just like the sea. He was such a good swordsman, such a good hero. He'd saved the world, and in payment he gets killed.

"Curse you!" I wailed at the dark sky, hoping for some kind of response. I would've settled for a lightning bolt on top of my head right then, just to feel something, to know I was alive. To join him.

In one hand I held a single blue cupcake with a candle in the middle, burning down, and the wax melting into the bread and frosting. But I didn't care. The cupcake wasn't for eating; it was in memoriam. Today would have been Percy's eighteenth birthday. I had made a similar cake two years ago, expecting to give it back to him when we returned to Camp, but the chance never came. He was gone long before we even left.

I remembered spending long hours calling his name in the streets of New York, still dazed New Yorkers stumbling around me, none of them searching for the man who had saved their lives. None of them even cared.

I didn't want to believe it, not when Poseidon himself cried for his dead son, not when Apollo recited the only good poem he'd ever said, not when The Fates raised a green shroud and lit it on fire. I couldn't believe it, even as I watched the smoldering fabric fall in black pieces to the ground, burning away, like the candle in my hand.

It was half as tall now, short and stocky, not like him at all. He was tall and lean, but well-muscled, well-trained. I missed his jokes, even though they were usually pretty lame, they always seemed to lighten the mood, no matter how grim. Now those jokes would be great. But of course, if he was there to give those jokes, I wouldn't be crying.

I remembered as I ran from Mount St. Helens, fourteen years old on a quest through the Labyrinth of Daedalus himself, fleeing from a volcano as my closest friend fought off an army of telekhines at the mouth, nothing but a sword and some ice whistle he tried to keep hidden. Back then, I'd been invisible, running away while my braver friend made his final stand. It had ripped my heart out when the explosion sounded, jarring me and throwing me to the ground, shaking the foundations of the earth with such force I was half afraid Gaea would wake up. Smoke rose from the top of the volcano, brief tendrils of fire flickered and burning, like he would be.

But somehow, however sure we had been that that would be the end, he survived. He came back just in time for his funeral, watching as his own shroud burned to ashes before him. I was bleary-eyed and probably looked terrible, but when I saw him, I remembered when I had kissed him on St. Helens and was both enraged and relieved. Then he came up with a ridiculous idea, which, like every other one of Percy's, pulled through in the end.

But the day I remembered the most was two years ago exactly. I was talking to my mother, Athena, in the lobby of The Empire State Building, the war finally ended, with Luke Castellan dead and Kronos scattered across the world, rethinking some of the things I held on to. Like now, only then, I wasn't so much grieving as accepting.

_"Mom, please, will you stop badgering me. It's my decision, okay?" Athena just looked at me solemnly, almost forlorn, and a little sorry. "What's wrong?"_

_Athena sighed. "Nothing, dear, just…as long as you're happy." It didn't sound very encouraging, but then again, Athena and Poseidon had a standing rivalry going, so neither party was particularly thrilled about me wanting to date Percy, so I didn't think much of it._

_"I am, mom, really. It's just..." then a scream echoed through The Empire State Building. A very familiar scream. "Percy!" I screamed, running to the elevator which led to Olympus, forcing it open and banging on the button that read the number six hundred. Behind me, Thalia Grace and Grover Underwood rushed in, Grover with his reed pipes and Thalia her lethal double knives. We were all ready for a fight._

_I didn't stop to gawk at the minor gods and goddess standing throughout Olympus. I already had eyes for the throne room, where I hoped I would find Percy, probably fighting off the hounds of hell or something, but alive._

_I had been wrong._

_I burst through the double doors, a battle cry already on my lips, when I saw the carnage. Spoils of war, horns and claws and pelts, all were laying on the ground completely forgotten. All around the room, overturned tables and shrines laid covered in fresh blood. Pieces of seaweed were lying on the floor, puddles of seawater everywhere, and I knew Percy had called his last card out of desperation; the sea. Gods were standing everywhere; The Big Three, Zeus, Poseidon, Hades, even Hera and Apollo. The sun god didn't look happy anymore. His face was deadly serious and he was looking angry enough to vaporize someone. Zeus was seated on his throne proudly, but looking dumbfounded; Hades looked down at the ground like it was nothing new, which for him it probably wasn't. But what hurt the most was the devastated look on Poseidon's face, like he'd just been slapped. Dazedly, he looked up and blinked a couple of times, tears forming in his eyes._

_"The entire ordeal…he was screaming for help, and I could only watch. I could only watch…" I shook my head, disbelieving, uncomprehending, denying the obvious truth. For once in my life, I didn't care about logic or answers, I just wanted Percy back._

_"No!" I screamed, kicking at an overturned shrine to Hera. The goddess' eyes sparked dangerously, but I didn't care. I charged Poseidon, blinded by the constant stream of tears running down my face. "Where is he?" I demanded. "What did you do with him?" I fell to my knees and grabbed his stupid Hawaiian-themed shirt by the collar, shaking him, not caring that he was grieving just as much as me. "You're a god!" I yelled at him, jerking him out of his stupor. "Make him come back! Save him!"_

_Poseidon shook his head at me. "If I could, Chase, don't you think I already would have?" he asked shortly, fixating me with a glare of hatred._

_"I don't know!" I shrieked. "I don't know, I don't know, I don't…" I hugged myself and let the tears fall shamelessly, repeating his name over and over, rolling it on my tongue, savoring it, because it would be one of the last times I would ever use it."What have you done, Seaweed Brain?"_

_Then, to everyone's surprise, Hera stepped forward and addressed the surrounding people. "Today brings a bittersweet feeling to us all. We have conquered a mighty foe, but our sacrifice has been great. We cannot afford to forget our children, as we have done in the past. Nor can we ever let the memory of Percy Jackson fade from our minds. In the years to come, he shall be as infamous as my husband's children, Hercules and even his namesake Perseus. Let us honor his memory, and not taint it with our reluctance to believe what is obviously the truth." I knew she was looking at me. I knew Hera understood that I would never stop looking, never quit the search, that it would be my obsession until my dying day, but I didn't care. I would find him, someday, somehow I would. I swore it on the Styx, that unless I was given invariable proof that he was gone forever, I would not stop. The sky thundered at the thought, and I looked up at the all-powerful goddess, who had her eyes fixed on me._

_Suddenly, Apollo cleared his throat, and I was terrified he would recite another one of his horrible poems and ruin everything, but then he did something that surprised me; he sang in a beautiful, captivating voice, in Ancient Greek, a lament in honor of Percy Jackson._

_The hero untold but always remembered is now rest in eternal peace._

_Heroically his fate fell 'pon him, but he did not fall to his knees._

_Instead, he fought with desperate frenzy and shed his enemies' blood._

_But in the end his valiancy was simply not enough._

_So bow your heads, my children, those descended from our line._

_And honor he who died for you, may he live on in your minds. _

_I saw them then, The Fates, as they held up their hands and murmured in some ancient language, older even than Ancient Greek. A green shroud suddenly materialized in front of me, with a beautiful gold trident embroidered in its center. It looked identical to the shroud I had sown for Percy two years ago, the one I had burned when I'd first thought him dead. It floated up to the ceiling, and then suddenly caught flames. For several long minutes the shroud burned, its charred remnants falling to the floor with tiny wisps of flame still clinging to the fabric. _

_Burning forever._

And so I walked to the edge of the water and held up my cupcake, laying it in the shore, but as a gift from Poseidon, the flame did not go out, but rather continued to burn until it was blackened ash on the earth.

Burning forever.

* * *

**Just so you know, there is more to this story. This, however, is the prequel to the actual series, based off of this event. I.E. Percy's death. I'm not spoiling anything for you, but if you click on my author's name, it should bring up my story list. Ignore No More Death, completely irrelevant plot, (but read later) and click on "A Forgotten Fear." But only if you're interested.**


	2. Sinking

**I'm turning "Burning" into a collection of one-shots correlated to The Forgotten Fear. None of these are going to be important parts that aren't going to be explained in length in the actual series, so you don't have to read them. But it would be nice so you could give me feedback? Some of these might be song-fics. Others either based off of my own poems and songs. All will have synopses at the beginning. **

**Synopsis: Shortly after a near-miss at Montauk Beach with his mother, Percy Jackson stops by the lake in Central Park.**

**Sinking**

The rock skidded across the surface of the water, propelled by an expert hand. Percy momentarily questioned his productivity in life if all he was doing was chucking stones over the surface of a lake and watching the ripples disperse. But it hardly mattered to him. After what he had been forced to go through, what point was there to life?

He would never finish high school. Not that he ever stood a snow ball's chance in Hephaestus' forges anyway, but it had always been a consideration. Mostly because of his parents and Annabeth. She wanted him to go to college, get a degree in something he was passionate in, build a sturdy life outside of Camp Half-Blood. But always keep a knife under the pillow, she was careful to add. Never be off your guard.

How stupid of him to forget that simple piece. Don't let down your guard. Don't get too comfortable with a situation, because it can be taken out from under you faster than you knew possible. Everything you'd tried to build-the life you'd led, the friends you'd made-could be quickly and abruptly uprisen. What was permanent? What was undying? Even the gods eventually faded into oblivion. What hope did his puny, unimportant life have at ending well? Even if he had saved the world and risked everything for Olympus.

But what was one son of Poseidon? Nothing.

He echoed his own thoughts as he threw the last rock, which obediently bounced over the water as if it were solid. He hardly paid attention to the flick of his wrist, the angle of his throw; it didn't matter.

Nothing mattered anymore.

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a simple, unremarkable ballpoint pen. Staring at it with unhealthy fixation, he rolled it around his palm. Moonlight reflected off the surface of the lake, he noted. The silver moon distorted by ripples. Shining stars sprinkled around the small, distant planet that only presented one quarter of itself for the Earth's view.

A thought occurred to him. The gods presided over the US, maybe even the entire world. But how much control did they have over the planets? Were they able to terrorize the lives of some unfortunate demigod light years away on some planet called Vulcan or something stupid. Stupid like how the name Earth would sound to him. Or her. Or it.

Then Percy caught himself. Was this what he had come to? Daydreaming about other worlds that didn't have a pantheon of petty deities to control it? How the mighty had fallen.

He chuckled dryly to himself at the thought. Fallen. Past tense. Already done. Irrevocable. Unchanging. Unredeemable. Beyond a shadow of a doubt. Over.

But he wasn't. Not yet. Not entirely lost. He could feel it in his bones, the desperation to be found. To be saved. But no one was going to save him.

Hera made sure of it.

He closed his eyes and tears began to stream down his cheeks. But they didn't feel wet anymore. They felt like rivers of acids eating at his face. Eating at him. His heart. His soul. His mind. They were eating him from the inside out.

And he was tired of it.

He threw the ballpoint pen into the lake and it sunk to the bottom, ripples dispersing from the impact point. He watched them gradually fade and waited for the inevitable return. Sure enough, the pen's lightweight was back in his pocket within a minute.

He looked up at a tree on the other side of the lake. And he narrowed his eyes. His fists clenched, his body tensed, his mind filled with indefinable, indescribable rage. The green eyes that once danced with mirth and relief and happiness had grown cold, unfeeling.

Insane.

Was this insanity? He couldn't help but ponder the question with a thoughtfulness that had never before belonged to him. Percy Jackson was a man of impulsiveness, of spur-of-the-moment decisions, of think fast or die. Of course, that had been during a time in his life when there was no intermission between fights or battles. At least, it had been during a time free of the dead spaces of nothing in between life-or-death struggles. When he had friends to occupy the transitions and ease the passing of time. The elapsing of minutes. Inevitable as the stopping of his heart.

Suddenly, an absurd thought occurred to him. Before, on Olympus, before Hera had banished him and stolen away his life, when Zeus had offered him the ultimate gift; could he have accepted it? Would it have been completely unreasonable to look the Lord of the Skies straight in the eye and tell him that it was Percy's secret longing to become the immortal lieutenant to his father?

No, he concluded disinterestedly. No, it wouldn't have.

He bent down and bounced another stone off his palm, fascinated as it shot back from his flesh. He studied the stone, adjusting it, rolling it over, examining every crevice and imperfection. It swirled with a variety of muddy colors, from red to brown to black, all blending together in a curious formation. The rock was smooth, save for a single nick on its side, hardly enough to notice where Percy not dragging his sensitive thumb over the stone. It was only half the size of his palm, but in Percy's now flawed mind, it was larger than the Earth itself. In that moment of time, Percy's world composed solely of that rock. It was his life.

He raised it to eyebrow level and scoffed, pausing to examine that tiny nick in the stone.

And then he dropped it on the ground and kicked it into the lake, watching it sink to the bottom.


	3. Repaying

**All rights go to their respective owners.**

**Synopsis: Percy Jackson has finally learned the most important lesson of all - eventually, enough is enough.**

Repaying

How could you have been naive?

Hera, how could you believe?

Was prophecy your motivation?

Or revenge the explanation?

Did I somehow trespass you?

Does that right this trespass, too?

Standing here at the foot of your castle,

I wonder why I dealt with the hassle.

And I'm tired of you with your cocky retorts,

every word from your mouth brings with it hurt.

You massed the others to your plan,

to destroy an innocent man.

But it never did occur to you that you could somehow create

Another breed, neither hero nor villain, whom you cannot manipulate.

So I stand here, with palms heavenward,

and my eyes flash with vengeance.

I was never a coward.

* * *

The cops flood the street, the mortals flee the scene.

The bullets bounce off harmlessly as I loose a scream.

The doors are blocked by black and white,

but the wrong is being set right.

A single wave of my hand, and a wave bursts forth.

Hestia appears before me, but I disregard the hearth.

Before I cross the threshold, she monotones, "Think before you act."

I smile pleasantly and say, "It's too late to turn back."

The goddess vanishes to warn her brethen and I turn to face the doorman.

He cowers underneath the desk, but I knock on the top once, then again.

Leaping from his shelter, he cries out in alarm.

But I promise to do him no harm.

"Get the mortals away," I tell him sternly, but he doesn't move.

"Give me the key," I order, unsure of what to do.

He stiffens, tall and confident, and I growl.

Still he is unaffected, and then I simply scowl.

"You leave me no choice."

I declare with stentorian voice.

A devastating hook leaves him snoring on the floor.

And suddenly, it's off to war.

* * *

I retrieve the key from the drawer, soggy and moist.

Hera never thought to be contended by a boy.

I march off the elevator, and hear the doors ding.

Then Pat Benatar begins to sing.

The metal shudders open to reveal Olympus braced.

But I am so unlike anything they've faced.

Luke was possessed, the half-bloods obssessed.

But I am a new breed,

and so they start to bleed.

Riptide, cursed blade it still is, cuts through the air.

And my eyes shimmer darkest black, no longer do I care.

Poseidon stands before me, and I step forward to fight.

But he shakes his head and says, "Son, this isn't right."

"You never cared for me before!" I scream in fevered tones.

"I know what you're going through." But he doesn't know.

Riptide flies through the hall and the sea god disappears.

* * *

I charge the Throne Room doors, bursting through.

Hera looks affronted, and wears a dress of blue.

Quickly it turns to red as she breaks my curse.

But I only say, "It could be worse."

She bends down, pleading, "This isn't you."

"Not the Percy that you knew."

She pulls away, and I lunge.

With a final yell, I take the plunge.

She stumbles back, I stagger forward.

I was never a coward.

* * *

Then the world is black, I'm here inside my safe house.

I hear the scraping of a nearby mouse.

Hera stands at the doorway, "Better?

The Torturer brought your anger, it was never you."

I growl and say, "Not the me you knew."

I throw at her head a nearby stick,

screaming, "My name is Eric!"

She leaves me in my rage, to wallow and to scream.

Rocking back and forth, praying it's a dream.

* * *

One day I will finish the task I must complete.

Revenge for what's been done to me, the gods' final defeat.

A man bereft of a home, a family and of love

Eventually must decide that enough is enough.


	4. Inevitable

All rights go to their respective owners.

Note: I know this is short. Uncharacteristically so. I found this on my computer (must have written it a while ago and forgotten it) so I tweaked it to fit with Percy Jackson. This, as you might assume, is a collective piece of everyone's voices about Percy's death. I'm thinking about doing more with this idea, but I'm not telling you what.

Synopsis: We are War. We are Battle. We are Demigods. And it doesn't matter how hard you fight or how good you are, indefinite war will eventually do you in.

Inevitable

We Are War. We Are Battle. We Are Bloodshed.

We are the ones who lurk while all others lie dead.

We collect our fallen and soldier on.

We are the warriors who must stay strong.

Concealed behind barriers while the world lives its life.

Meanwhile we're struggling not to fall prey to the knife.

We held ourselves with composure and grace

while we look Death square in the face.

And as we mop our blades clean of the crimson red;

We chanted

We Know War. We Know Battle. We Know Bloodshed.

* * *

The Titan Lord came sweeping through.

And for once we knew not what to do.

Then suddenly the hero came

and we looked to him to end our pain.

Modest, kind, albeit a fool

He viewed our camp as his home and jewel.

He knew no bounds as he rushed the foe.

And it was victory for us to know.

* * *

He conquered foes and won our war.

Through grief and loss and blood and gore.

But then while he celebrated,

The Fates made the end then fated.

The string was cut, his life ran out.

All we heard was his dying shout.

* * *

His lover, though she never said

Knelt in the blood of the hero dead.

We gathered round to watch the burning.

Bit by bit, we all were learning.

Grieve your loss, mourn the dead.

And on we chant

We Are War. We Are Battle. The Hero Is Dead.


	5. Snowing

**Presenting my first shot at a song-fic: My apologies if it is shoddy quality bereft of the usual personality most of my pieces have. I am unused to this style of writing.**

**Synopsis: Despite all of his insisting and arguing, Percy never wanted to leave Camp Half-Blood. And no matter how far he runs or what life he creates outside of the demigod sanctuary, he wishes he could give it up and go home.**

**Note: I took some license when writing this piece. I told the feel of the music and a looser interpretation of the words. Initially, I'm sure it meant a man made a mistake, left the woman he loved, and now regrets it. But I figure I can warp it to my favor.**

**All rights go to Rick Riordan, Linkin Park, and because it's the version I'm listening to (which I suggest you do too. His voice is angelic.) Josh Groban. The song is "This is My December," originally composed by Linkin Park.**

Snowing

I rub my hands together, trying to summon some warmth from the fire to my frozen fingertips. Numbness washes over me as I gaze absently out the dilapidated window to the unpleasant view of another brick building, equally uninhabitable as the one I now take refuge in. It is nighttime in the middle of December with three inches of snow outside and no one awake except me. Most of the Wisconsinites have heaters filling their homes with welcome warmth. I, however, am not so lucky.

_This is my December. / This is my time of the year._

_This is my December. / This is all so clear._

I always liked December when I was younger. It was the month of holiday cheer, when everyone had a moment to appreciate where they were, what they had, and who they had. Of course, back then, I hadn't thought of it that way. All I wanted was the presents and the smell of an evergreen in the living room. I loved decorating the tree, telling Christmas-y jokes to make Mom smile.

As time passed, I came to appreciate the mark of another year. Another three-hundred-sixty-five/six days alive. Such is the relief of a demigod son of Poseidon—especially when the length of his life is dictated by a prophecy looming over his sixteenth birthday. Friendship meant more to me, and I understood all the lectures my mom gave me to value the finer things in the holiday. Then my eyes glazed over when Annabeth rambled on and on about other holidays that time of year, the commercialism of the holiday, and other boring stuff.

I had a life, with friends, family. People I loved and who loved me. Things were perfect; Kronos defeated, Camp saved, and it might have been my imagination, but I thought there was something with Annabeth.

But it all fell apart, and in the ruins of yet another condemned building, I'm beginning to understand why.

_This is my December. / This is my snow-covered home._

_This is my December. / This is me alone._

I rise from the fire and climb out the window. I don't know why I'm doing it, but I feel compelled to seek another place to hunker for the night. I leave my pack and food rations inside—I can retrieve them later—and forge out into the dark, snow sprinkled night.

The moon is full above me, glowing radiantly in contrast against the otherwise starless sky. I wear a heavy trench coat shoplifted from a clothing store when no one was looking. Underneath, I have several layers of cotton and knitted sweaters and jackets. Three pairs of gloves garb my hands, not that it makes any difference. I wear leggings underneath my solid jeans. Earmuffs protect my ears from the cold, and a turtle neck hides most of the rest of my face. It isn't hardly enough defense against the weather, but it's three years' worth of scavenging and stealing.

Puffy white snowflakes gather on my hair and shoulders, and I suspect I look like depressed wandering the streets of Appleton, Wisconsin. Alone. Miserable. Weighted down by more jackets and sweaters than most people own. The reality is that I have stashes of hundreds of articles of clothing all over the country for the winter. Some are under floorboards in safe houses, other buried in the ground near river or lakesides, but almost every city I visit in these months have a bunch.

I glance back at the safe house. It's stout, made of brick, and clearly in disrepair. A light layer of Mist—the magic that separates the divine and mortal—conceals it from most eyes. A keen-sighted demigod or even clear-sighted mortal would see it without a problem. But it wasn't an oft visited one, so it wasn't an issue. The one in Albany was significantly better than any of my others.

The flat roof withstands a fair share of accumulated snow. It is worrisome that such a derelict dwelling should take the beating it does and it is likely it will collapse from the weight. Poor architectural forethought, I critique. No sooner does the thought cross my mind than I think of Annabeth and her fruitful designs. The architect of Olympus. Lucky girl.

I chuckle and my breath puffs out in a small fog. I remember her yellowed-blonde curls, cascading down her shoulders on the rare instances she left it down. The way it swings side to side when she shakes—shook—her head at me and laughed. "Seaweed Brain," she'd say. And I'd reply with the complimenting "Wise Girl" and make her laugh even more. Those grey eyes, the way they lit up in mirth when we hung out—just friends. It is enough to dispel my despair and bring a reminiscent smile to my face.

But she's not here now. She'll never be here, with me, ever again. No, she isn't dead.

I am.

_And I give it all away / just to have somewhere to go to._

_And I give it all away / to have someone to come home to._

I remember the strawberry field at Camp Half-Blood. The volleyball court with the characteristically spirited games, often with campers trying out new skills on the ball to make it go higher, more accurately, harder. The basketball court, dominated by the Apollo cabin—the showoffs. The arena, where I'd spent so much of my time training. The Mess Hall. The cabins (I wonder how many additions have been built by now. Probably most, if not all). The Big House—blue with white trim. The lake. The creek. The woods. Capture the Flag, with the cabins playfully plotting against one another. And the trickling Sound, soothing, relaxing...my real sanctuary.

I think of the Fireworks in July. Of the mini Winter Solstice/Christmas celebration this time of year (I was already there when I was fourteen and stuck around to see it). Remember the stress around the Summer Solstice and the high spirits when it was through—not that I had ever seen one, always off on one quest or another. And the chariot races, the foot races. The pranks from Hermes. Everything.

It makes me want to cry.

I miss it. I really want to hang out with friends—_allies_—and laugh and feel free and careless. I want to be a normal nineteen year old, because I missed out on being a normal Junior and Senior in high school. Hell, I missed out on being a normal kid ever. I was never normal. Half-bloods aren't by mortal standards.

Camp Half-Blood was the only place I really belonged. Now, I have nothing.

_This is my December. / These are my snow-covered trees._

_This is me pretending / this is all I need._

I shake off the memories and straighten my back. I walk toward a park with pretty trees, now ghostly white with snow, and wander through the thin foliage. There is no one around but me to enjoy the quiet scenery, so I sit down and cross my legs, playing with the pile of snow. I trace a crummy looking sword into the white blanket, then a Greek-style shield. A sketch of armor. A tiny cottage. They don't hold a candle next to the realism of Rachel Elizabeth Dare's artwork, how she can capture something's likeness with a choice few brushstrokes and hardly any thought. She'd illustrated a couple of my fights alongside her. For a while, the redheaded artist had seemed a romantic probability, but it rapidly became apparent to both of us that Annabeth held my attention and heart.

Funny.

Not that it matters, I insist to myself. What good did Camp Half-Blood ever really do me anyway? Gave me worlds' worth of trouble and responsibility I neither wanted, needed, nor appreciated. Told me my father hadn't died at sea, but simply left Mom and me to fend for ourselves against a filthy wretched drunk with a gambling problem. Threw me out into the dangerous world on quests I should never have had to take on in the first place. Handed me a bloody leadership role and a deceiving victory.

That was the great, noble contribution they made to my life? Strife, pain, grief, worry, anxiety. Mental problems galore. Injuries and near-death experiences. This is a better world now. Free from the responsibility of other people, other lives I'll only let down. Other families that will mourn their children after they die under my command.

Bianca. Zoe. Lee Fletcher. Michael Yew. Castor. Charles Beckondorf. Ethan Nakamura. Silena. Luke. All dead because of me. Not only am I better off without the others. They're better off without me.

I have Riptide. I have clothes. I have food. I have excitement. I have oceans. I have shelter when I want it. What else does a man need?

_(Companionship...)_

_And I give it all away / just to have somewhere to go to._

_And I give it all away / to have someone to come home to._

I kick the snow-drawings and scream, biting back tears. Who am I kidding? I miss them. All of them. Annabeth. Grover. Chiron. Travis and Connor. Jake Mason. Pollex. Will Solace. Hell, even Clarisse. Any one of them, just one day to say sorry, to enjoy myself, to relax, and I'd be happy. Contented for life. But I know that's a lie too. Companionship is like a drug. Every time you give yourself a fix, you have to go on withdrawal all over again.

I surge to my feet, wailing in grief, in despair, in psychological agony. My hands fly up to my hair, pulling it out by the roots. It doesn't come, courtesy of the Curse of Achilles. Stupid "gift," making me invincible so I can't properly kill myself.

Not that my damned conscience will let me. I've tried. It hasn't worked. The knife stays where it is, posed, without sinking into the small of my back, and I drop it and give up again.

A flurry of snow blows past me, and for a deranged second, I see a white Annabeth standing before me, Yankees Cap on, smiling as she steps toward me to embrace me. I scoff in disbelief and spread my arms to accept the contact, but then the wind blows the image away. I'm alone again.

_This is my December. / This is my time of the year._

_This is my December. / This is all so clear._

Unwelcome clarity dawns as I stare on to the East and the rising sun. It bathes the horizon with comforting warmth, rays of heat striking out the ice on the ground. Orange dominates, with reds and yellows. The snow stops falling. I can see everything as it is, both physically and mentally.

Hera took away my everything. Left me barren, destitute. Poor, unfortunate, lost, abandoned, and most of all, alone. Robbed me of my reason to love, to care, to spend my days contemplating happily-ever-afters and pretty snow days.

I used to love being away from school this time of year because of the snow. Now I wish I could turn back the clock and get my diploma.

The children start to emerge from their houses to play in the snow. I used to do that in Manhattan. Now I can't bring myself to care. Snow means nothing but coldness and bitterness for me now. Another thing Hera took from me.

Demeter causes the winter as she mourns for her daughter, Persephone, trapped in the Underworld with Hades. But although the goddess of harvest causes the unforgiving weather didn't mean Hera isn't its embodiment.

Hera is winter. And because winter is in December, and Hera is winter, I hate December.

_And I give it all away / just to have somewhere to go to._

_And I give it all away / to have someone to come home to._

I have no home. I can't offer, trade, negotiate, finagle, or otherwise manipulate the gods to give me back my home and my family.

And for that reason, I will always be alone.

This isn't my December. This isn't anyone's December. This is the Olympian's winter playground.

Have fun boys and girls, because I'm done playing along.

**This ended on an unexpected bitter note, and I'm thinking this could lead into something. Maybe I'll do a three-shot of song-fics based on this one. What do you think? Should I?**


	6. Mothering

**All rights go to their respective owners. **

**Synopsis: Her bouncing baby boy will never bounce again.**

Mothering

Sally Jackson looked out her window to the New York City Skyline mutely. Her husband, Paul, cooked pancakes in the kitchen. He hummed a chipper tone as he did so, but Sally couldn't summon the energy to smile.

Her hands were knitted in her lap, her body leaden. She stared on through the gathering haze outdoors, thinking back on the wonderful times when Percy was just a little boy and would sit on her knee, pointing at birds and clouds in the sky. He would bounce enthusiastically on her knee, like he wanted to leap out the window and fly.

Ironic, considering he rapidly developed aerophobia later in life. Rightfully, too, as his father was Poseidon and the sea was never supposed to meet the sky. The proud and mighty sky. The sky that watched as the greatest hero of them all died just because he wanted _his_ daughter to be worshipped as the best, the greatest. Couldn't bare the thought of being upstaged by a sixteen year old boy requesting justice and impartiality from the gods. Couldn't tolerate that a _child_ was wiser than he, the great king of Olympus.

Sally tightened her clasped hands for a heartbeat, then relaxed them and forced the bitter thoughts from her mind. Wistfully, she thought back on her parting words with Poseidon as he vowed never to see her again, lest he incur the wrath of his brother.

"Be careful with your thoughts and words, Sally my darling. The gods can be awfully touchy when it comes to their perceptions in the minds of mortals."

Sally scoffed, still young and drunk with the illusion of invincibility. "I don't care. You're just going to leave me like this?" She motioned at her bulging stomach. Poseidon ran his hand up her maturity shirt, grinning cheerily. "Don't you want to raise our son?"

Poseidon laughed bitterly. "I've wanted to raise all my children. But I never have the pleasure. I can tell you this much though; he will be the greatest hero in a hundred years."

Sally stifled a small smile. "Wouldn't your brother object? Didn't he father a son, too?"

Poseidon kissed her gently on the forehead. "A daughter. Her name was Thalia. I liked her plenty, although my brother's oath-breaking irked me. Hades was the one who wanted bloodshed." His expression darkened and Sally's intrigue was piqued.

"What happened to her?" she prompted, leaning on her tiptoes.

Poseidon erased the look of woe from his eyes and threw his head back. "You already know too much, Clear Eyes. I am loath to tell you more." Poseidon squeezed her hands in his hands and kissed her one last time before he stepped back into the surf, which rose to swallow him like a dome. A split second later, the god of the sea was gone.

"Bon appetite!" Paul announced grandly, a plate in either hand as he quickly walked over to the table and deposited two pancakes in front of his wife. Sally looked up and felt loving warmth fill her when she saw the scruffy peppered bread she had grown to adore. For a moment, he helped to dispel her grief and numbness.

It returned soon after.

She pushed the breakfast away, sickened. "I can't eat."

"You were doing fine a minute ago," Paul protested, shoving it back at her. Sally turned away like a five year old child boycotting vegetables. "You can't starve yourself to death, Sally." Then his voice grew quieter. "He wouldn't want you to be like this."

Tears stung the corners of her eyes. Sally bit her lip hard, tasting blood. "You hardly knew him, Paul." She said it quietly, hoping he wouldn't hear. But the crashing of silverware told her he had.

Sally did not look up to meet her husband's eyes as he roared, "Hardly knew him? I lived with him for a year, Sally. _And_ I was his English teacher. I might not be as well-versed with this mythological hell you two live twenty-four/seven, but I know enough to understand. Just because I'm not his biological father doesn't mean his death means nothing to me! You're not the only one grieving."

With that, Paul stormed off and out the door, slamming it behind him. Sally listened to his thundering footsteps as they faded, small, scalding tears rolling down her cheeks.

Then, only because she felt the overwhelming need to occupy her hands, Sally slid off the chair and knelt on the floor. Paul's plate had broken into five large, albeit sharp pieces. Sally stood and grabbed a broom from the corner, returning to the table to sweep up the plate and pancakes all at once. The soft breakfast food had been obliterated on impact. Painfully, Sally remembered how much Percy loved blue cakes.

But these weren't blue, she reminded herself. And Percy was dead.

She swept the trash up and into the trash bin beside her. Sally felt absolutely nothing as she took the broom and began to sweep the rest of the apartment. Then she retired the sweeper and wiped down the counters. Then she organized the fridge. Without thinking about what she was doing, she disappeared into her room to make the bed and gather up the dirty laundry. She placed it reverently in the washing machine.

Her feet carried her elsewhere in the house, but her eyes would not tell her where. It smelled faintly of muddled sweat and week-out pizza. Sally moved about languidly, her fingers not accurately perceping the things they came in contact with. She was neither hot nor cold. Rather, her body seemed to precisely match the temperature of the room, making her movements hard to detect. At least to her somewhat fractured mind.

She moved automatically. Folding this, tucking this here, throwing this out, smoothing out this, straightening that, hunting for that... She was vaguely aware of what she was doing, but her mind moved quicker than her body, and yet a thousand times slower.

She had to get ready. One glance at the clock told her he would be home from school any minute. She hastily set the washing machine to run, insuring that he had a satisfactory change of clothes. Nothing less for her little hero.

The door creaked open and Paul stood in the door, grim. But Sally had moved past the general shock of grief and full herself headfirst into the type of powerful denial only a mother could conjure. "Sally, about before..."

"In!" she barked, shuffling to the door and urging her husband inside. "In! In! Honestly, you men are utterly hopeless."

Paul frowned and grabbed her shoulders. "Sally, we need to talk. We're both gri - "

"Oh!" Sally snapped her fingers and bustled over to the sink. "Dinner. What should I cook today?"

"Sally, let's just order take out..."

"He's getting home from war today, Paul. I can't give him take out."

Her husband froze where he stood and spun her around. The look in his eyes was burning with desperation and fear. "Sally, Percy died on Olympus. He isn't coming home."

The illusion tumbled down around her ears and shattered on the ground. The blissful state of denial that shielded her from the suffocating agony of loss washed away with his words and Sally's knees buckled. She fell into Paul's arm, wailing despairingly.

Her bouncing baby boy was dead.

* * *

Two months passed.

"Paul," she declared one day out of the blue, holding one of the first copies of her novel, "Daughter of the World." Her husband startled in the driver's seat. His hair was neater today and recently darkened after a trip to the barber. He insisted on looking as young as he could naturally get away with so his students wouldn't detach themselves from his lessons, but Sally knew it was just vanity.

"What's up?" His normally upbeat tones had taken a solemn undertone after Percy's death. But he still managed to act unbothered for Sally's sake.

Sally hesitated, but then decided it was for the best. She needed the closure. "I want to go to Montauk Beach."

Paul faltered on the steering wheel, swerving into the next lane. A great deal of profanities filled the car, both from Sally's spouse and other irate drivers. "Why in the name of God would you want to do that?" Sally ignored the misused exclamation. Paul refused to adjust to the subtleties of the Greek Pantheon, enjoying his more diluted cursing.

"Because I miss it. And..."

"Sally, we've been over this. You need time away."

"I have to face it sooner or later!" she snapped. Paul looked at her apprehensively, partially keeping his attention on the road. But they were backed up in rush hour traffic in the middle of Manhattan. They had time to talk. Sally took a deep breath and prepared to justify herself. "Eventually, Annabeth will want to come over. Especially now that... Chiron sometimes depends on me to help his satyrs in the city, and I frequently have played safe house for estranged demigods on the run. I can't distance myself from that world forever, Paul. I have to face it. It's the only way I'm going to heal."

She fell silent, letting her words carry the proper feeling of urgency. Paul stared at the license plate of the car in front and sighed. "Alright," he resigned. "Tomorrow. We pack tonight."

She thanked him and they drove the rest of the way home.

* * *

Montauk Beach did not present quite the same closure she'd hoped for.

Instead, it brought back a rush of unwanted memories. Grief poured over her as Paul pulled up in front of the small hut-like cabin and shut off the engine. He turned to her, eyes reflecting his apprehension. "Are you sure about this?"

She nodded and stepped out of the car.

She carried her first edition book with her - the first paperback of its kind - as she walked up to the cabin door. She heard what sounded distinctively like a curse and some rustling from inside. She stepped back, alarmed, and experimentally threw the door open.

Tears rushed from her eyes and down her cheeks when she saw the place her and her son had once cherished as a utopic vacation spot. No one had used it in nearly three months, and now some of the torrential weather inflicted on it by the grieving Poseidon. The windows were broken, bits of the wood was wearing down and coming apart. Sally stifled a sob.

Paul materialized behind her. "Sally, why are you even doing this to yourself?"

She shook her head, not sure of the reason herself. This wasn't giving her closure or satisfaction. It was only thrusting her deeper into the pit of depression she had been scrambling out of for months. "I thought - I thought maybe if he was alive, he would come back here." There it is. She hadn't been searching for closure. She wanted that tiny bit of doubt Annabeth had placed in her mind about his death realized. Wanted to find her handsome, sarcastic son leaning against the wall, battered and bruised and demanding they go home to blue pancakes and sing off-key Queens' songs with Paul. Yearned to hold her baby again, and never, ever let go.

But that was impossible. Percy was dead.

She turned away and buried her face in the crook of Paul's arm, sobbing uncontrollably. "You can stay for a little bit, Sally, but I think it's best we don't come back here. For everyone's sakes," Sally nodded, muttering a teary "Okay" before heading off toward him.

But then a wild, half-mad idea occurred to her. Sally called out, "Wait!" and ran back inside, shifting frantically through her purse and bearing paper cuts and bruised knuckles to pull out her first edition, which she had tucked in her purse sometime during her grieving. She placed it gingerly on the ground, cover up, and bit back more tears. "If he ever comes back," she explained. Paul shook his head and wrapped an arm around her waist, walking her back to the car.

As she loaded into the passenger's seat, Sally could have sworn she saw someone sprinting in the distance, the water from Montauk lurching up to touch him. She perked up, and Paul asked her what was wrong. For a moment she didn't answer, seized by the wonderful impossibility that the boy running so frantically away from the car was actually her son. It was a hope that flared in her chest like a wildfire and spread over his entire body, leaving her speechless.

But no. If it had been her son, he would have made his presence known. He always did, even if he tried not to. And especially, now, as grief-stricken as she was... Percy would have been waiting at the car, at the very least, if not in it. He wouldn't be running away.

"Nothing," she said quickly. "Just wishful thinking,"

Paul nodded and revved the engine. "Move on, Sally. You can't mother a dead man."

Sally said nothing as he drove down the beach.

**This one is unbearably hard to write, especially seeming I know the truth of what's going on. For those of you who read "The Forgotten Fear," I did pattern that last scene after the flashback in Chapter Five, only this is in Sally's POV and terribly more heartbreaking. I'm getting impatient with myself now. I'm going to go write a future scene that you guys won't see for a very, very long time.**

**I'm going to make a cheerier one next. I cannot believe I'm saying this, but it is in honor of Valentine's Day. I will let you speculate what I'll be writing.**

**Review, people. I don't care if these are one-shots, I put a lot of effort into them and getting static in response makes me question my writing ability. Hell, if you cussed out my work it would be better than silence. The silence is creepy.**


	7. Searching

**All rights go to their respective owners. **

**Synopsis: "Ever has it been that love does not know it's own depth until the hour of separation." - Kahil Gibran. Aphrodite isn't just shallow and meddlesome; she's also insightful and sentimental. And when the goddess of love decides it's meant to be, there is hardly anything that can stand in her way from making it so.**

**Note: This is at least a three-parter. I created this for Valentine's Day to start with, but it didn't pull through. I will warn you: Don't get your hopes up about this chapter. It holds true to the storyline for Forgotten Fear, but not as much as you'd like to think. The next part is called "Finding."**

**Searching**

Annabeth Chase paced the front of Cabin Three indecisively, brow furrowed in thought and hands crossed furiously over her chest. She contemplated her options; risk further humiliation and degrading ridicule for searching for clues in a dead man's cabin and possibly find the love of her life, or walk away and be eaten by regret until her dying day.

It was a hard choice to make.

Let it be known that her fatal flaw was hubris, and although beyond the borders of Camp Half-Blood she had no interest in other people's opinions, she counted on earned respect here. She was the architect of Olympus, the co-savior of Olympus, and the counselor of Cabin Six. Her reputation had been iron-tight for years. At least until Percy went missing.

_Missing_. The word oft held too much of a final feeling. Once something is missing, it doesn't come back. But people lose their keys all the time, and they almost always find them. Thus would Annabeth find Percy and bring him home.

A minor crush had developed in her pre-teens, when she first met him. She'd dropped the subtle hints of attraction occasionally, even being bold enough to hug or kiss him on the cheek once in a blue moon. He'd missed it all. As time passed, the crush intensified and became rapidly apparent that Annabeth's feelings for her Seaweed Brain rivaled even those of hormonal lust. She redoubled her efforts to force the realization of her feelings on him, eventually foregoing tact and subtlety altogether in favor of screaming it in his face. Annabeth never put her feelings into words, but she hadn't expected him to be so damned daft not to get it when she growled at Rachel or kissed him square on the mouth in Mount Saint Helens.

He had been.

After speaking with Rachel, who'd a similar albeit less intense attraction to Percy, any doubt in her mind as to his mutual liking of her was dispelled. Rachel literally confessed that half the reason she'd told him she wasn't interested was because Percy was Annabeth's foregone conclusion. They were meant to be together as more than the tight friendship they always shared. Percy was simply disingenuous when it came to women - he deliberately pretended to be stupid. And not to be hard to get. Annabeth knew from years as his questing partner that Percy was smarter than he let on, but he never used it advantageously unless forced to.

Simply put, Percy had been a caligyenphobe. He forced thoughts of dating or anything else from his mind because he stuttered and made an ass out of himself when trying to flirt or otherwise talk to a girl who was flirting with him. Thus, to avoid awkwardness, he had feigned confusion and stupidity while Annabeth and Rachel vied for his attentions.

Then, finally, Annabeth broke through. A shiny moment of confidence burst into her at the end of the Titan War while she danced with him and she wanted to kiss him. She was going to, without hesitation or apprehension. But then Hera interrupted them and they flew apart like same-charge magnets. Damned goddess.

So Annabeth went downstairs to the lobby of the Empire State Building to wait for him. What she heard was a scream. She raced up, but she was too late.

Blood was everywhere, diluted by water. The gods grieved. But she refused to believe the obvious truth.

That was what fractured her reputation. More like tarnished it, as many of the campers where in a like-minded frenzy to find Percy. She didn't care particularly, as it was only in her brief moments of rationality that it even crossed her mind. Like now. But Annabeth was convinced the Cabin would yield some crucial clue to her, despite the fact Percy's disappearance had been on Olympus and the cabin had already been turned inside out before. But never by Annabeth. If anyone could crack the code, it was she.

Annabeth stopped pacing and faced the stout fisherman hideout with a resolute gaze. Percy's cabin door was simple and yet elegant, fashioned, like the rest of the cabin, out of greyish-blue stone. Intricate designs of pegasi with carved waves, seashells, and a single trident adorned the frieze, running up along two Ionic columns. Three steps led up to the simple door, unremarkable in anything but the sturdiness of its make. The cabin perfectly represented the sea - strong and yet simplistically beautiful.

Annabeth sauntered up the steps. She could hear some of the rumors already begin to circulate as she made her way inside, easily pushing the door open as it hadn't even been latched. Instantly, the scent of salty ocean and carelessness hit her and she smiled. She recognized the smell to be that of Percy's after recently emerging from his father's domain. It always drew her closer to him.

There were five bunks on either side of the cabin, arranged neatly. Annabeth always found the number deceiving; Percy had been the only inhabitant for the past seventy years. Nonetheless, he had managed to thoroughly infect every square inch of his cabin. His presence still hit Annabeth after six and a half months of being gone.

The door swung shut behind her, latching of its own accord. Heavy silence permeated the air, tension thicker with each breath she took. Annabeth stepped forward, knowing the suffocating feeling settling over her chest was just paranoia in her mind and the shock of being completely alone in Percy's cabin. She took another step forward, then another after that, and so on until she reached the bunk where Percy typically slept.

It was in complete disarray. Annabeth wasn't sure if it's current state was due to Percy's own adhorable organizational skills or the frequent and merciless rending it had received from searching harpies. Either way, the blankets were tossed over in a heap on the side. The pillow was tossed on the ground, fluffy white insides surrounding it. The mattress was flipped over. Actually, Annabeth was positive most of the disaster was attributed to the harpies. But it was likely horrible when they arrived as well.

Annabeth set about shifting through the drawers on the far side of the room. They were empty. She moved to the closet, weakly assorted with a few blue and green shirts, some jeans, and three Camp Half-Blood tees. It was a miracle Percy even hung them up. Annabeth dug through the pockets, but nothing reveled itself to her. She frowned, doubt seizing her heart for the hundredth time in a week. But she shook her head and continued to shuffle through his worldly possessions.

She found a picture tucked under one of the pillows. Remarkably, it hadn't been damaged or lost in the chaos of the cabin. It was a photograph of Percy and Annabeth during their one trip to Montauk Beach, both of them laughing raucously and coiling their arms around each other. They looked at the camera with mirthful exasperation, like they couldn't wait to get the damned thing taken but didn't mind it.

Tears burned in Annabeth's eyes. She remembered this. A few months after Percy's birthday, it became apparent that Camp Half-Blood required her immediate assistance. She'd visited Percy before heading to Long Island, and his mother gave her a ride. They stopped at Montauk on the way and had more fun than they should have splashing through the surf and bantering with each other.

It was such a wonderful memory that Annabeth clung to it through the tangible object of the picture. Cool-hot tears spilled down her cheeks and heartbroken sobs tore from her. She crumpled to the ground, muttering his name under her breath. "Where are you, Seaweed Brain? I can't find you."

She pocketed the picture after crying for several minutes and returned to her digging. But now, everything had a sentimental value. Eventually, she was no longer clear-headed enough to properly do the search. She all but fled the cabin and sprinted through the gathering crowd toward her cabin, where she promptly buried her head in stacks of blueprints and scribbled plans for Olympus. The monster-proof laptop given to her by Daedalus whirred to life as she fought to forget Percy Jackson.

Fought to forget the man she loved while simultaneously fighting to remember him forever. She couldn't win that war, and she knew it.

* * *

Aphrodite cursed loudly. "Out of all the foul things you've done, Hera, this is one of the lowest!"

Aphrodite stormed up to Olympus, fuming. The assembled three Olympians - Hera, Zeus, and Zeus' son Hermes - turned to look at her in alarm. The goddess of love raised a glowing hand to silence them before they spoke. She turned to Hera, who should have, by all rights, been her partner in crime. Instead, the bitter goddess contented herself with endangering perfect loves and ruining heroes lives. "She loves him, you know." she spat.

Hera smirked. "You say that about everyone, Aphrodite. About whom are you speaking?"

Aphrodite glowered. "I am not as shallow and petty as you think, Hera. At least not to such the extent as _you_." Zeus rose to intervene, but even the King of Olympus was hard-pressed to reprimand Aphrodite when she grew angry. Last time she threw a hissy fit, Zeus had to give to Eifel Tower to appease her. And Aphrodite was angrier than even then. "Can't you see the _depth_ of their love for one another? As the goddess of marriage, you should appreciate that, and yet you serve only to tear it down. Your selfish plan is turning the most powerful demigod alive against us, all for one lousy..."

"That is enough, Aphrodite." Hera interrupted, rising to her feet. "The fate of Perseus Jackson has been set in stone. The monsters shall overtake him in precisely nine weeks. At that time, he will fulfill my need for him and be permitted to return to his old life among half-bloods." The Queen attempted to push past Aphrodite, but she would have nothing of it.

"And if it fails?" she demanded. "If your brilliant, fool-proof plan has the tiniest flaw, Hera, everything falls apart. Poseidon's prodigy is lost forever in Tartarus and we have to face our two worst advisories without his aid. How do you presume to accomplish this?"

"It will not fail." Hera sounded so confident, Aphrodite believed it would work. But even so, she wasn't willing to take the chance.

"It's February 14 tomorrow, Hera."

"Your point?" Hera feigned disinterest, but her eyes narrowed on Aphrodite with suspicion.

"Let me give them what they want. One night together to confess their feelings."

Hera roared, shoving Aphrodite back in her rage. "Your impertinence is not appreciated! I have told you the finite details of my plan, and if one piece is to fall out of place..."

"I'll erase their memories of the encounter." Aphrodite continued desperately. "They won't remember seeing each other again. All I want is for them to share one night, and then it's over."

Hera didn't waver. "No, absolutely not. Of all the - "

"Isn't robbing them of each other for two years enough? Percy Jackson will never graduate high school or start college because of your asinine plan. Now you want to deny him the privilege of being near the love of his life? Why are you so insistent on torturing him?" Hera snarled, but the goddess of love was unrelenting. "I've given blissful nights to others less deserving before, Hera, and not one has gone awry. You know I can pull it off. So _let_ me."

Aphrodite could see Hera's determination flicker across her face and knew she wouldn't relent. "You know my answer," Hera boomed across the throne room. "It is final."

And with that, she left.

* * *

Percy sprinted through the underbrush, gasping frantically for air. The monsters had been following him for nearly a month, and he was wearing down from the constant running. He headed Northeast, knowing his only chance was the heavy cloak of Mist around the Albany safe house. He hated passing by Camp Half-Blood, but time was running short and he was desperate.

He ducked under a branch and an arrow as it whizzed past his head. He called out, feeling the narrow brush with death against the side of his neck. Wordlessly, he thanked the gods for his invincibility. He'd forgotten the number of times he would have been killed without it.

Percy glanced over his shoulder and swore. The horde trampled the trees and branches in their wake, unperturbed by Percy's weak attempt at losing them. Most of them were enraged Cyclopes whom Percy had foolishlessly antagonized by setting their residential cave in Canada on fire. He tried the "Nobody" maneuver, but these one-eyed brutes weren't as stupid as Polyphemus. They disregarded his confusion and blundered on through the frigid winter temperatures of Quebec and several other nameless cities, still hot on his heels while he sprinted through New York. Albany was his only chance, stocked to bursting with more demigod machinery and food to outlast even the most ruthless siege.

But he had to get there first.

The call of the ocean tugged hard on his gut and Percy decided it was worth the risk. If he could slow them down even a day, he might have time to rest and recuperate. Hades, he'd retire to the sea for the rest of his life if he thought he could get away with it. But Cyclopes can swim. Who knew?

Oh, right - they were his half-brothers.

He broke through the forest, the warmth of noon bathing the gooseflesh on his face and arms. A little more energy rushed through him, but it wasn't enough. He altered course toward the water, praying his instincts weren't befuddled by his feverish running.

They weren't.

He splashed into the surf, laughing as the water seeped through the decrepit fabric of his sneakers, and whirled around as the horde of monsters screams toward him. Percy parried the first blow that came, the rush of strength the water gave him reinforcing the block. Spear tip and sword edge sparked against one another, and he kicked it back. It staggered into its buddy, who barreled toward Percy only to be skewered on his sword. The Cyclops burst apart into golden dust, glinting in the light of high noon.

More bombarded him, but the ocean was his impenetrable fortress and so long as he stayed there, he'd be safe. He retreated farther in, staying firm, and killed more than he could remember doing in the past two years. Maybe not as many as he dusted during the Titan War, but significantly more than his time on the streets.

Finally, he wheedled them down to a mere handful of snarling one-eyed monstrosities. Percy raised Riptide, poised to claim ultimate victory, when he heard a scream. An all-too-familiar scream of the woman whose rational mind had saved his life more times than right to count.

He forgot about Hera's threat and charged the multiplying horde of monsters, determined to reach Annabeth before it was too late.

* * *

Annabeth tapped the side of her desk irritably, unable to think of a proper facade for the mini-palace. It was a relatively simple design - such was Artemis' wish - but sometimes the simplest things were the hardest to get a read on. It was four in the morning and Annabeth still couldn't draw the damned entryway.

She threw down her pencil in exasperation, ignoring the half-finished equations scribbled in the margins and the virtually blank sheet of blue paper. Groaning, she retrieved another unfinished blueprint from her desk and stared at that. Five minutes. She rifled through the folder once more, determined to find something she could work with. Zilch. She sat back in her seat dejectedly, burying her face in her hands.

It was hopeless. That much she could assess. Her mind was locked on other things, other _people_, and no matter what ingenuity was normally available to her, it was utterly useless now. She couldn't tap into her creativity. She couldn't delve into the recesses of her mind and produce a perfect, flawless idea like she always did.

_Face it, Chase,_ she thought. _You have architect's block._

The bunk next to her desk stirred and Malcolm, her older brother and second-in-command, poked his head out from under the covers. There were bags under his eyes, barely visible in the dim lighting produced by Annabeth's lamp. "Annabeth," he grumbled, rubbing his eyes. "What are you doing?"

"Working," she lied easily. It had been her intention.

Malcolm glowered at her. "No, you're keeping the rest of us up. Go to sleep."

"The deadline for these plans is next week!" Annabeth objected weakly, temporarily forgetting the sway she held as counselor. She was too tired to think straight.

"I don't care," he informed her, rolling onto his back. "People are selfish that way. They like to sleep."

Annabeth curled her lip and tried to look imposing. Usually, that didn't take much, but it didn't work on her drowsy brother tonight. "Fine. I'm going to take a walk. Maybe that will get the juices flowing."

Malcolm gaped at her. "The harpies will thank you after they eat you."

Annabeth ignored him and stormed out of the cabin, throwing on a jacket on her way and jogging into the frigid air. She didn't even try to think through the haze building in her mind, preferring instead to walk mindlessly. Her feet carried her down the strawberry fields, past the Big House and down Half-Blood Hill.

She didn't know where she was going until she reached it. Montauk Beach.

* * *

The monsters were worse than a hurricane. The inexhaustible horde replenished itself, replacing a banished pair with a quartet, and a quartet with a small battalion. They never stopped coming, but Percy could still hear Annabeth screaming madly for help somewhere in their center and knew he had to take as many out as he could. For her.

He ducked under a swing, tumbling under a Cyclops legs and slashing its arms before it could grab him. He plunged Riptide into its knee, and it burst apart behind him. He unsheathed a knife from his side, thrusting upward into the sternum of another doubled monstrous half-sibling. His sword free, he swung it overhead like he was rallying troops and battle-cried, keeping the horde at arm's length as he surged to his feet.

He produced a shield from nowhere, stealing it from a dead Cyclops to block the downward mash of a mace. It didn't even dent, proving its superior make. He decided to keep it if it survived the fight. If _he_ survived.

He threw on a chest piece, protecting his vulnerable back. He didn't strap it on - no time - but it was enough to redirect blows that would have killed him otherwise. He kicked backward, sending a charging oaf stumbling and burst forward with rejuvenated speed. Another cry from Annabeth galvanized him, and his frenzied instincts destroyed several more monsters in his wake.

Finally, he made out the middle of the horde. Annabeth was nowhere in sight, but Percy could hear occasional cries of "Behind you" and "So one eye really does mess up depth perception, huh?" He suppressed a smile and dusted yet another beast. He looked around frantically for his childhood friend and crush. Her Yankee's cap was both his blessing and curse. It meant the stupid Cyclopes would continue to lumber about and hack each other to pieces looking for her, but in the chaos, she could get caught unawares. And he couldn't help her.

But he didn't dare call out her name. Instead, he bit his tongue and fought on, quickly realizing its futility. He couldn't win. The interminable army wasn't going to die off any time soon, and he still had miles to cover before the end of the month. He fell back on his last ditch effort: the sea.

The familiar tug yanked on Percy's gut and he grunted, banishing one last Cyclops before releasing the tidal wave. It crashed into the toiling foes, sweeping them off their feet and launching them into the air. Beads dripped into his eyes, but he concentrated on that sensation in his core, thrusting out a hand to command the ocean to do his biding. Surge this way, now that. Swirl, crash, recede. Always eager to obey, the tides cooperated, and finally the last of the foes were extinguished.

Exhaustion swept through Percy and he collapsed onto the ground. Riptide skidded a few feet away, and he strained to reach it, unconsciousness playing on the corners of his vision. His last thought before blacking out was: _Annabeth got caught in the wave too..._

He yearned for death.

* * *

Annabeth wandered for a long, dazed amount of time. She left her watch back in her cabin, which was stupid of her - how was she supposed to know when to head back? And even worse was when she blithely crossed the barrier between Camp Half-Blood and the mortal world like some sort of idiot.

It became apparent within three minutes of being outside of Camp boundaries that it was not her own will leading her. Rather, it was some unknown force altogether, and whatever rationalization she attempted to apply to the situation was useless.

Of course, things became undeniably catastrophic when externally-controlled feet carried her into a horde of Cyclopes.

The spell shattered like glass, and Annabeth was as awake as ever. She forced her cap onto her head, pulled her knife, and danced around the one-eyed brutes with the grace of a gazelle and speed of a cheetah. They couldn't see her, let alone catch her, which reassured her of her survival. Originally, her intention had been to sprint back the way she had come, but then she caught sight of a flash of black hair by the shore and knew there was a demigod in danger.

Camp training kicked in and she tumbled to the side as a Cyclops lunged at her, raising her voice and shouting "Over here!" in the most taunting and girlish voice she had ever used. The Cyclopes had the anticipated reaction; they barreled into each other in their haste to catch her. She avoided every oncoming blow or attempted grab, slipping out of a few while the oaf was still dumbfounded at having caught thin air. Periodically, she stabbed an unwitting foe and they burst into golden dust, but there were so many of them, her efforts were in vain.

What she planned to do was lead the Cyclopes away or work her way toward the demigod and run for safety. The latter was not as preferable, as it likely resulted in both of their deaths. Of course, the first had an even higher likelihood of Annabeth dying, which she was no fan of. No other solution occurred to her, however, and she was forced to play for time while fighting a constant string of advisories.

She made it to the shoreline, where she'd spotted the dark-haired demigod earlier. But he was nowhere in sight. She cursed under her breath, annoyed with the upstart for throwing himself into the fray, probably to save her. She shook her head and continued to fight the monsters, trying to move so her back wasn't to the ocean.

That's when she saw it.

The water receded, leaving about five feet or more of bare sea floor, littered with thrashing sea creatures, desperate for air. The monsters didn't notice it, of course, too hell-bent on killing her. But Annabeth saw it, and her heard stopped. That preceded a tsunami. It always preceded a tsunami and it never preceded anything else.

She swore, wrenched her cap off her head, and ran for cover.

She barely made it to the smattering of trees before the wave struck, a great roar of nature crashing down on the monsters like the Reckoning. It spun around in a controlled funnel, several feet clear of the trees, and the Cyclopes went with it, grunts being the most intelligible things from their mouths. Then the water slammed back into the surf, and the deformed descendants of Poseidon exploded into muddy gold dust.

Annabeth watched the entire thing from her shelter in the forest, and when it finished, continued to stare in shock. Never in her life, not even during her time alongside Percy, had she seen such a feat with the ocean. She fell to her knees, conscious of her exhaustion, and scoffed in disbelief.

Then she saw the dark-haired boy again. He was splayed on his back, a golden sword inches from his grasp. He looked as though he had been reaching for it before he fainted.

Crashing through the trees, Annabeth fell to one knee at his side, fingers probing his neck for life before she even saw his face. When she did, the gentle throbbing beneath her fingertips felt like drumbeats in her ears. His nose had the slightest incline to it, narrow and handsomely proportional to his face. There was a scruffy beard developing on his chin, but it was really no more than stubble. Youth clung to her features, identifying him as no younger than twenty, and that was pushing it. Despite the battle, he was untouched, but his clothes were shredded. Monster dust covered his dark hair.

The deal-breaker, Annabeth thought as she gently pulled one of his eyelids up to reveal the startling sea-green of his irises. No other man possessed eyes that vibrant. It had to be him.

Percy Jackson.

A strangled sob tore past her lips before she could stop it. Before long, joyous tears ran down Annabeth's face unchallenged and she embraced her lost-and-found friend, unmindful of his sleep.

A groan came in answer, and Annabeth pulled away, more excitement infusing her body than she had felt in her entire lifetime. Percy's eyes fluttered open of their own accord, and he made a strange noise like a deflating balloon. He closed one eye again, using his right to scan his surroundings. Annabeth rested on her haunches, not wanting to startle him, and waited.

"Ow," Percy said as he assessed his body. He started sitting up, still oblivious to Annabeth's presence beside him. But then he stopped, bracing himself on one arm as he held his head. "Double ow."

"Are you alright?"

Percy jumped halfway to Mars when Annabeth asked him his welfare, and whirled around. He scooped Riptide from the ground, aiming it at her neck with more speed and accuracy than he'd possessed in all the years she'd known him. Annabeth threw up her hands in alarm, ball in her throat.

Percy froze when he saw her face. "Annabeth?"

Then he ran.


End file.
